


Endure

by Versipellium



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Feral Behavior, Fuck Or Die, Knotting, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Werewolf Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-19 09:30:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12407718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Versipellium/pseuds/Versipellium
Summary: To say that Derek and Scott's rescue mission didn't go according to plan would be an understatement.





	Endure

The clunky thud of boots on concrete echoed down the corridor, announcing the hunters’ presence long before the door’s latch clanged free and the heavy slab slid open.

Two of Monroe’s goons stood on the other side with their clichéd sawed-off shotguns at the ready. Stiles wasn’t sure if he should be flattered that they thought he was a threat, or if it was more realistic to assume that these dudes always walked around with the big guns out. “Come with us,” Goon One demanded, finger twitching over his trigger. Which… _stupid_. What ever happened to trigger discipline?

Whatever the case, Stiles wasn’t about to go anywhere with Goons One and Two. No, he needed to stall for time. Scott and the others would be here soon. That’s how this whole “getting captured” business worked. One of them would mess up, get caught, and the others would bust them out. Easy peasy. And while he was sure that wherever they were gonna take him was great and all, Stiles was willing to bet that rescue from this poorly guarded holding cell would be a good bit easier.

“Nah, I think I’m good here,” Stiles leaned back and sprawled out. Sure, the bare concrete wasn’t exactly comfortable per say. And it might smell suspiciously of blood, vomit, and piss. But, you know, that wasn’t the point.

Goon Two raised his shotgun and aimed it square at Stiles’ chest. “Come with us now or I’ll shoot you.”

Rolling his eyes, Stiles grumbled, “Real creative.” But, unimaginative or not, it was admittedly convincing. Stiles hefted himself up to his feet and took his leisurely time crossing the cell. He kept dragging his feet all the way down the corridor, through a perforated metal door, down a stairwell, through _another_ gated door, and was about to complain about this maze of a bunker when the goons stopped in front of a doorway.

Wheels rattled when someone from the inside slid the heavy slab open. And, to his _immense_ displeasure, the door opened to reveal Tamora Monroe with that stupid, smug smirk of hers.

“Stiles,” she said lightly, “Glad you could join us.”

“You know me,” he quipped, “Aim to please.”

The room itself looked like the kind of observation room you’d see in a police station or a surgical suite. There was a window on the opposite wall that had the dusky hue of a one-way mirror to it, as well as two mounted speakers that Stiles was willing to bet carried sound from the other side of the glass. Stepping into the room, Stiles could see that the window did indeed peer into an adjacent room. No surprise there. What was a bit of a surprise was that, instead of seeing some unlucky werewolf hooked up to electricity on the other side, there was just another one of Monroe’s goons with a mop. He pushed the mop forward, murky water sloshing along with it, and pulled it back, revealing a long streak of…

Stiles had to look away and will his stomach to settle.

“Do you know what this room is, Stiles?” Monroe stood beside him, Goons One and Two taking position on either side of them.

“Murder Theater?” Stiles choked out, trying for steady and missing it by a mile.

“Not far off, actually.” She stepped forward and tapped her finger against the glass, “I find demonstrations to be a powerful motivator for new recruits. Anyone who sees two monsters tear each other apart can’t argue that they’re anything but monsters.” She jutted her chin towards the remnants of a veritable bloodbath in the other room and sneered, “No human is capable of that.”

Before Stiles could wrap his head around how utterly _horrifying_ that claim was, a door in the murder room swung open. The hunter with the mop beat a hasty retreat, leaving pieces of human anatomy still sopping on the floor behind him, before two limp bodies were shoved in.

Stiles couldn’t breathe. Something must have gone horribly wrong. Really, terribly, horribly wrong. Because in _no universe_ was it okay for Scott and Derek to be here. Not unless they were coming in guns and fangs blazing with the strength of the pack behind them. Not…not _this_.

Scott seemed to have taken the worst of whatever happened. Derek at least was able to crawl to his knees, one arm wrapped around his stomach and the other braced on the floor. Scott, on the other hand, looked like the effort to roll onto his back and blink at the ceiling was about all he could manage. 

“…to you, Stiles,” it took him a moment to realize Monroe was talking. In fairness, it was a bit hard to focus on anything other than his barely conscious friends on the other side of the glass, “Usually we just bring a few potential recruits in here to watch two omegas kill each other. But today?” She smiled and it was all smug satisfaction, “We have Scott McCall and one of his betas. Today, Scott McCall’s going to either kill or be killed. So, thank you, Stiles. For bringing him right to my door.”

She turned back to Goon Two and asked sharply, “Is everything ready?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he nodded, “Multiple cameras rolling and gas ready at your command.”

Monroe’s superior, self-righteous, holier-than-thou, fucking…her fucking….god dammit, he wasn’t thinking clearly. He wasn’t even breathing right, his gasps ragged and short. She said something else, but Stiles didn’t hear it. He took a step closer to the glass partition between rooms, his attention locked on his friends. Derek had staggered to his feet, eyes flicking around the small room. Stiles could see the exact moment Derek realized what kind of shit he was in, his expression blanching before he dove towards Scott.

“Scott!” Derek’s shout was tinny in the observation room. But, even through the cheap speakers, Stiles could still catch the trace of panic in it.

Derek’s hands shook as they flitted between shaking Scott’s shoulder and hovering nervously over the alpha’s abdomen. The puddle of murky water under Scott was turning a darker brown and Stiles felt his stomach drop even farther. Scott was bleeding. A _lot_.

“Scott,” Derek tried again, “Get up. We–“ He cut himself off and looked up to the ceiling. Stiles craned his neck trying to see whatever had caught Derek’s eye, but from where he stood he couldn’t get an angle on it.

In one swift motion, Derek yanked his bloodied shirt off and ripped it in two. Holding one half against his face, he draped the other over Scott’s head. Scott blinked in bewilderment, but Derek was already on his feet and testing the door. It didn’t budge. And, if the way Derek jerked his hand back was any indication, it wasn’t just a door. He tried the window as well, but snatched his hand back the same time Stiles caught the tell-tale glow of a mountain ash barrier.

“Stop this,” Stiles breathed, “Please, stop this.”

Monroe smirked. “It won’t be long now. Soon Scott McCall, the supposed paragon of the supernatural, will rip his beta limb from limb. And if Derek’s as strong as the Calaveras claim, then we may just be witness to a fitting end for the _true alpha_.”

Stiles was _not_ going to believe that. Never in a million years. They’d find a way out. They _had_ to. “You’re sick,” he spat, “I hope you know that.” Stiles stepped back from the glass partition and really took in the observation room. Besides the two speakers, the room was bare.

Goons One and Two, however, had their sawed-off shotguns held in casually loose grips. As if this whole thing was just some leisure job.

Stiles didn’t even think. He lunged for Goon Two and knocked the barrel out of his hands. The weapon fell to the floor with a clatter and Stiles dove for it.

Monroe was faster. She kicked out and caught the butt of the gun, sending the shotgun spinning towards the far corner of the room and well out of Stiles reach. Before he could scramble after it, he heard the click of a safety. Turning slowly, Stiles was greeted with the distinctly _not awesome_ sight of Monroe’s pistol levelled right at his head.

“I could kill you right now.” It wasn’t even a threat, just a statement. “Or you can behave and live to see another day. Either’s fine with me. So, Stiles, what will it be?”

Goon Two snatched his gun off the floor and avoided Monroe’s brief, accusing glare. Stiles scanned the room from his lower vantage point, trying to find _anything_ he could use to get them out of this jam.

But, other than the pistol levelled at his head, he had nada.

“You’re wrong, you know.” Stiles may be a trigger-pull away from a rather lethal bullet-in-brain scenario, but keeping his mouth shut had never really been his strong suit. “Scott would never kill Derek. Believe me, there were times when I was begging him to. But Scott? He’s good like that.”

She raised one well-maintained brow in obvious disagreement. But, instead of rising to the bait, she leered, “We’ll see about that.”

Stiles climbed back to his feet, freezing mid-way when he saw the other room. It looked…murkier? Like a chain-smoker’s apartment or a concert that went way overboard on the dry ice. Derek was back at Scott’s side, holding the remnants of his shirt tightly up against his alpha’s face. His eyes, now burning bright blue, were locked on the window. Stiles wasn’t sure if Derek could actually see through it or if it just looked like a mirror on the other side, but… Stiles shook his head. Until Monroe or one of her goons made a mistake, Stiles was… he was _useless_. Fuck, he was supposed to be one of the clever ones. How the hell was he going to stop this?

Derek’s eyes squeezed shut, just for the briefest of moments, before he turned back to Scott. He shook his shoulder again and, this time, Scott stirred in response.

“Where’s Stiles?” Scott mumbled through the bloody fabric, propping himself up on his elbow. He shook his head in an attempt to get free of whatever was on his face, not yet understanding that the cloth pressed tight against his nose and mouth was a good thing.

Derek held the fabric in place and said quickly, “He’s fine.” His eyes, still burning blue, flicked to somewhere to the left of Stiles before turning back. “We don’t have much time.” Derek got an arm around Scott’s shoulders and helped him into a sitting position. Voice muffled, he pressed, “We’re going to lose control soon. You need to decide now, while you can still choose. Kill or mount.”

“I…what?”

In fairness to Scott, Stiles was having trouble processing the ultimatum too.

A crackle of a radio broke the silence in the observation room, followed by Monroe’s annoyed, “What’s he talking about?”

“I’m not…” Scott shook his head again, this time managing to push Derek away, “I won’t do either.”

The radio fizzled back with a staticy response, _“Maybe a pack breeding pair? I’ve only heard about them in feral packs, but they can happen.”_

In the room, things were devolving quickly. Stiles leaned in against the glass and held his breath when a growl started up. From Derek’s pinched expression and Scott’s slack one, he was pretty sure he knew which one of the werewolves it was coming from.

Scott scooted back and curled his clawed hands into fists. “Stay away,” he choked on his own words, “Stay back!” His eyes burned blood red, fangs stretching out beyond his lips and failing to crawl back.

Derek obliged, stepping slowly back until he was up against the opposite wall.

“Scott,” Derek didn’t sound much better, his own voice coming out strained, “Kill or mount. Choose.”

One moment Scott was struggling to sit upright. And the next he was across the room with his claws buried in Derek’s side.

It was that fast.

Derek grunted, caught off guard. His surprise only lasted for a moment before he dropped his shoulder and thrust Scott back.

Whatever coherency Scott had was just… _gone_. He lunged at Derek, eyes gleaming alpha red and claws extended. Stiles slammed his fist against the glass partition and bellowed their names, his shout cracking with panic. He had no idea what to do. No idea how to fix this. They were going to die and it was _his fault_.

But Derek was a survivor. Despite his flaws. Despite his poor decision making skills. Despite his _everything_. Derek was a survivor. And instead of matching Scott’s assault with a counter-attack, Derek twisted around and fell to his knees. Scott’s growl halted, his werewolf-heavy brow furrowed while he regarded the submitting beta. Derek leaned forward on his elbows, still clutching the remnants of his shirt to his nose, and then fucking _presented_.

Considering how absolutely messed up and terrifying this situation was, Stiles shouldn’t find anything about that even remotely sexy. Because it wasn’t. Nope, nothing sexy about a shirtless Derek Hale with his head down, ass up, and back bowed in imitation of a lordosis reflex. Nope. Nothing.

A feral Scott, however, wasn’t so reluctant.

Stiles heard a hysterical laugh, and it took him an embarrassingly long moment to realize it was his own. But could you blame him? Because his best friend just mounted _Derek freaking Hale._

Scott’s claws dug into Derek’s sides, dragging lines of torn flesh behind them until they settled at his hips. Derek, who still seemed _painfully_ coherent, cried out before he managed to clench his jaw shut. His protest earned him a swipe of claws right at the base of his neck, spilling blood across his tattoo. Derek went rigid, his body unnaturally still as a very feral Scott got himself situated.

Small blessings being what they were, it looked like feral-Scott didn’t really understand how clothes worked. He humped Derek’s ass with a rabbit-quick pace, but managed nothing beyond driving his claws deeper and giving Stiles new material for his nightmares.

“What’s he doing?” Monroe shouted into her radio, “This isn’t what’s supposed to happen.”

Her indignant glower was almost enough to make him laugh. Almost.

 _“Give it time,”_ the asshole on the other line reassured her, _“The alpha’s too far gone. He’ll switch to maiming soon enough.”_

“You better be right,” she snarled.

Stiles wanted to snap back with some witty rejoinder, but he couldn’t find words. Nah, it was hard to think much beyond horrified panic when he realized that the guy on the radio might be right. Scott was growling again, the bestial sound mounting in volume as his thrusts became angrier. He swiped ineffectually at Derek’s clothed ass, knowing on some level that he wasn’t getting what he should but not seeming to know what to do about it.

Whatever Derek was trying, it wasn’t working. With sinking clarity, Stiles could see how this was going to play out. Scott was going to kill him. 

Stiles did the only thing he could think of. He pounded against the glass until his fist ached, urgently shouting, “ _Derek!_ ”

Beta blue eyes flitted to the glass partition, right where Stiles fist beat wildly against it, before they turned skyward and squeezed shut.

Scott snarled a warning when Derek reached back, but Derek ignored him in favor of swiping claws across the waistband of Scott’s pants. His jeans fell open, revealing plaid boxers tented over a straining erection. Stiles looked away, not able to watch this.

He focused on a spider’s slow crawl across the wall as if it was the most important thing in the world. And he was doing a pretty good job of it, blocking out the feral snarls and grunts coming from the other side of the glass like it was his freaking mission.

His resolve broke when a pained cry cut through the rhythmic grunts. Stiles’ head jerked upright so fast he gave himself whiplash.

He shouldn’t have looked.

While both men were still _technically_ wearing pants, Scott’s erection was free and Derek’s ass exposed. The denim had been sloppily shredded along with what, on a normal day, would have been a glorious ass. Today was not a normal day. Scott had done a number on Derek, leaving the swell of his ass lacerated with deep gashes and smeared over with blood.

But that probably wasn’t what drew Derek’s shout. Derek had been doing a good job keeping his mouth shut through all the scratching. Nah, Stiles figured the intrusion of cock into unlubricated ass was probably what did it.

But hey, with all the blood and tearing flesh, it’d probably get slick pretty quickly, right?

Small mercies?

Stiles was going to puke.

“I wanted a slaughter, not whatever the hell this is,” Monroe snapped into her radio, “Fix it!”

With probably anything else, Stiles would be vindictively rejoicing in her frustration. But at the moment? Not so much. Nope, he was definitely about to puke. Or pass out. One of the two. He wasn’t sure yet.

 _“The gas is maxed out,”_ even Stiles could heard the annoyance in the tinny voice, _“That alpha’s as feral as he’s gonna get.”_

Monroe still looked _pissed_. “And the beta?” her tone dropped dangerously, “If _your_ gas worked the way it was supposed to on _both_ of them, we wouldn’t have this problem.”

 _“Patience,”_ the voice commanded.

Surprisingly enough, Monroe obeyed. If that didn’t mean that this dude was a key player in this war of theirs, he didn’t know what did.

And, horrifyingly enough, Stiles was pretty sure the dude on the radio was right. _Again_.

Stiles didn’t register it at first; it was just this faint sound on the edge of his hearing. But then it picked up, ramping in volume until there was no denying that there was an animalistic _whine_ coming from the other room.

He looked back up and felt bile rise in his throat. Derek’s fangs gnashed together in a way that could only be described as carnal, the shirt laying in a discarded pile near his chin. And there was no mistaking that the whine was coming from _him_.

Stiles thought it had been bad when it was a feral Scott in there with Derek. But this was worse. Definitely worse. Neither of the werewolves had any semblance of control anymore. Not of themselves, and certainly not of the situation. They didn’t even…it wasn’t…that wasn’t Derek and Scott. It was more like watching two rabid animals that just happened to look like his friends.

He tasted bile; the rotten flavor striking his tongue with an acidity that made him gag.

 _“See?_ ” the radio crackled with the asshole’s smug assurances, _“Only a matter of time now. No one survives mating a feral alpha, and that beta’s too far gone to save himself. This will be even better, Monroe. You’ll see. Scott McCall fucking one of his betas to death? No one who sees this is going to think of him as a martyr after we kill him.”_

Scott claws were buried down to his knuckles in the flesh of Derek’s hips, but feral-Derek didn’t even seem to notice. He arched back, giving the panting alpha behind him a better angle. And the alpha _took_ , picking up speed until Stiles could barely even see the blur of his pistoning hips. Derek’s claws dug into the cement in his effort to stay in place, but the floor didn’t stand a chance. He scrabbled for purchase, scouring long divots into the cement in a fanned out pattern.

When all was said and done, they probably weren’t at it for that long. But it _felt_ like hours. Like they’d spent a lifetime in this shitty room with nothing but the panting snarls of a feral alpha and heaving whines of his submitting beta. And, you know, the slapping flesh, squelching blood, all those other sounds that he was going to spend the rest of his life trying to forget.

And then Scott’s hips stuttered forward, and Derek _roared_. The speakers shrieked at the overload, threatening to blow if someone didn’t turn them off. It was the first time during this whole thing where Derek actually looked like he was trying to get away. He swiped a clawed hand behind him, aiming blindly. Scott grabbed it easily and pinned his wrist on the floor, snarling a warning. Derek snarled back and bucked, but the alpha remained firmly lodged in his ass.

While his hips continued to strain forward in small, abortive thrusts, Scott leaned forward and sunk his fangs in the joint of Derek’s neck. The beta went still, body entirely rigid, while blood gushed from the wound. By the time Scott’s hips stopped, the tension had bled out of Derek and he laid limp under the alpha.

Stiles did retch then, upending his stomach near Goon Two’s boot. The man stepped back with a disgusted shout, but Stiles _really_ couldn’t be bothered to care. He sank to the floor and buried his head in his hands, unable to stop shaking.

There was a long moment of silence before Monroe held her radio up and barked, “You said the beta would be dead. Does he look dead?” It wasn’t a question.

 _“No,”_ the disembodied voice admitted, _“Looks like the alpha missed the artery._ Patience _, Monroe. He still nicked a major vessel. Leave them be and the beta will bleed out in time.”_

“What a joke,” she complained, this time to no one in particular.

Stiles followed the Goons out of the observation room, shaking too hard to really take advantage of the only opening he saw. By the time he had his hand outstretched, Goon One was already stepping away and aiming his shotgun. If these guys could seriously stop with the whole threatening-to-unload-buckshot-in-his-chest, Stiles would _really_ appreciate it. He just saw his best friend fuck Derek within an inch of his life. Or, you know, maybe _actually_ to death. Because that was a thing. That was a thing that happened.

His breaths were too short, too fast, _not enough_ , but the Goons couldn’t care less that he was panicking. They led him back through the maze of corridors before depositing him back in the earlier holding cell. Far away from Scott and Derek.

He was so _useless_.

The door slid shut with a loud clang and Stiles flinched. He had to get out of here. He had to _do something_. His breaths were growing shorter, vision swimming around the edges and stars flashing before him. Derek was bleeding out somewhere because Stiles had been _stupid_ , and he was just sitting here. Scott was going to get a bullet in the head or wolfsbane poisoning or _something_ and Stiles was _doing nothing_.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, hyperventilating and useless. He didn’t even realize that the door had opened again until someone yelled, “Stiles!”

Stiles couldn’t manage to look up, gaze fixed on a foggy spot. Hands wrapped around his face and forced his head up. He had only a second to register that Lydia was somehow there before her lips crashed into his.

It wasn’t until he reciprocated her kiss that he realized how far gone he was. Sucking in a shaky breath, he willed his breathing to slow. His heart still hammered loudly in his ears, but for the moment he could actually breathe. 

“What happened?” Malia demanded. She and Liam hovered in the doorway, watching him and Lydia with an air of uneasiness.

“Scott,” Stiles managed to choke, “Scott and Derek. Oh my god, we have to get them. _Now_. Like, _right now_.”

Malia was on him in a second, fingers clenched painfully on his shoulders. “What about Scott?” A tremor of panic belied her fierceness.

Stiles pushed her off and got unsteadily to his feet. Lydia sidled up next to him, but he waved her off as well. “No time,” he said shakily, “Follow me.” 

He led them through the bunker, past the first perforated metal door, down the stairwell, and through the next gated door before holding a hand up for them to slow.

Sure enough, a guard was posted to the door where Stiles could only hope that Scott and Derek were still alive. Before he could suggest a plan, Malia lunged at the armed man with a snarl. The hunter barely had time to get his firearm up before she slammed her fist in his skull. The knock-out was impressive and the man fell down with a groan, blinking slowly at the ceiling as if he didn’t quite understand what it was.

Liam hovered over the disoriented man while Stiles worked the latch on the door. It swung free and Stiles breathed out heavily when he saw that both Scott and Derek were still there, laying exactly where he last saw them.

Scott was sprawled over Derek’s back, passed out and snoring. A puddle of blood stretched around them, larger than it had any right to be, and Stiles felt his stomach drop. “Derek!” He rushed into the room and dropped to his knees next to the pair.

Derek blinked up at him, eyes back to hazel, and managed to twitch his mouth into what was probably meant to be a reassuring smile. It was undermined a moment later when it fluttered into a grimace, accompanied by a softly huffed moan from Scott.

Blood still seeped from Derek’s neck, the alpha-inflicted wound refusing to close. He was deathly pale, sweat crowding his brow and trembling with each shallow breath he pulled in. But he was still _alive_.

Malia went to pull Scott up and Derek stirred, “Wait, it’s – ah.” His face screwed up in pain, body pulling oddly back when Malia tugged on Scott. A groan escaped the still slumbering Scott and he reached forward sleepily, wrapping around Derek again.

Stiles head whipped between the two of them, his jaw going slack because _no way_.

He was pretty sure that if werewolf knots were a thing, someone would have told him by now. Werewolf knots were just a step too far into crazy. And yet… before Malia could tug harder, Stiles held his hand out and barked, “Malia, wait.” 

“What’s wrong?” Lydia asked, coming closer. At Malia’s sharp look, she amended, “Besides the obvious, of course.”

Stiles shook his head and almost wanted to laugh, “Ah man. There’s no good way to say this. I think…he knotted?”

 _“What!?_ ” Liam’s horrified squeak came from the hallway, “That’s a thing?”

Derek rolled his eyes and huffed, “Just pull him off, it’ll be fine.”

“You sure?” Stiles hesitated, hands hovering awkwardly over them.

“We need to get out of here _now_ ,” Derek bit back, “Don’t we?”

“Testy, testy,” Stiles griped, not willing to admit how glad he was that Derek was acting more or less like himself. But he was right. They needed to get out and Stiles for one had no idea how long it took for a werewolf knot to go down. He nodded for Malia to continue. She didn’t waste any time. With a sharp yank, she pulled Scott back.

Scott came awake with a yelp, but that was nothing compared to the cry that Derek let loose. Blood gushed from where the two were joined, spilling out of Derek’s ass along with whitish globs that Stiles was going to work hard to forget.

Derek’s shout echoed down the hallway, the sound bouncing for a disconcertingly long time. The group stood frozen before Liam whispered urgently, _“Guys.”_

Yeah, there was no way no one heard that.

Stiles slung Derek’s arm over his shoulder and heaved him up, staggering under the weight. Derek’s legs gave out under him for the first few steps before he managed to limp forward, a pained grunt hissing through clenched teeth with each step.

Scott blinked slowly in fuzzy confusion. “What?” he managed before Malia grabbed his hand and pulled him out of the room. Scott stumbled behind her, but otherwise seemed a bit easier on his feet than Derek.

They didn’t get far before a throng of hunters came briskly down the hall. Lydia rushed in front and shrieked, knocking them on their ass before they so much as got a shot off. Ears ringing, Stiles readjusted Derek’s weight and continued forward. Lydia took them back to where Stiles had been kept captive first, then led them through winding halls until they were finally outside. 

Stiles didn’t take time to enjoy the first breath of fresh air he’d had in a while. Lydia’s car was parked close by, speed evidently favored over stealth in their back-up rescue. Derek’s Camaro was likely somewhere hidden away, but with the shouts of more hunters assembling behind them, there wasn’t any time. The six of them piled into her car: Malia slid into the front seat and pulled a still sluggish Scott on her lap, Stiles shoved Derek into the backseat and crawled into the middle seat behind him, and a moment later Liam jumped into the seat next to Stiles and shouted, “Drive!”

Lydia didn’t need any more urging. She peeled out of the bunker’s parking lot like a bat out of hell. Cracks of gunfire followed her out and a window shattered, but no pained shouts followed. The Prius’s engine groaned in complaint, but Lydia ignored it in favor of jerking the wheel sharply to get on the main road. Derek slid into Stiles at the sharp turn, grunting incoherently before Stiles elbowed him back to his side of the backseat.

It was only after they were well away from the bunker that she eased up. When she finally got on a road with traffic, she shakily flicked her blinker on and merged in with the other cars. Only then did she ask, “What on earth happened back there?”

Stiles could taste the hot sting of bile in his mouth and, for all his normal snark, he was at a loss. Scott looked back at Derek, expression bewildered and more than a touch scared.

It was Derek who spoke first.

“We survived.”

**Author's Note:**

> Monroe's werewolf demo at the armory got me thinking. And then Derek's return got me plotting.


End file.
